It’s been a long time since I’ve been honest with myself about my writing.
The first story I ever wrote was “Pogo the Troublemaker,” about a mischievous Jack Russell Terrier that accidentally got on a rocket to the moon. I scribbled on leftover computer paper and sold it to my uncle for a dollar fifty. I’ve been writing down stories ever since- on the corners of napkins, in the backs of math notebooks. Fragments of poetry buried themselves in my desk drawers and later, crept silently in my computer.
Clicking “publish” is a frightening thing. It makes everything real. It gives my words more weight than they ever did, when they crawled like little ants in the journals beside my bed. But I think this is a step I need to take, for my growth as a writer and person. And I think it forces me to come to terms with the fact that I want to share my work, and that I want to be in dialogue with other writers, readers, and thinkers.
And so, welcome to my blog, ridden with heartbeat quickeners and giggle inducers and spontaneity. I have no idea what’s coming, and that’s awfully beautiful.